


Solitary Fame

by emma_and_orlando



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Assistant!Roger, Best Friends, Drunkenness, Famous!Freddie, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, freddie is lonely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:35:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24606298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_and_orlando/pseuds/emma_and_orlando
Summary: Five times Roger was the best assistant Freddie could ask for + One time he assisted Roger.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 32
Kudos: 82
Collections: Freddie Mercury Weekend 2020!





	Solitary Fame

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry for being late, but thank you so much Ana for organizing this Freddie centric weekend. This is an amazingly complex man to whom we owe so much for giving us never ending joy. This goes out to both Freddie and Ana for organizing

Freddie angles the mirror just so that he can look at himself in the mirror behind him. He also gets a good view of Roger, who is holding the razor more like a brush than a blade. 

Again Freddie shifts the hand mirror to watch Roger glide the razor over the small of his foam covered back. Taking the dark hairs with him. 

"You missed a spot." 

"I haven't gotten there yet." Roger flicks the excesses foam off in the basin behind him. Freddie also catches him rolling his eyes through the looking glass. 

Although irritated, Rogers continues to work in slow strokes down Freddie's back. 

He already finished his shoulders and most of the difficult curved bits around the spine. Now all there's left is his lower back all the way down to the waistband of his underwear. Roger stops there. Doesn't push it down or ask for further instructions. He doesn't want to hand Freddie the teases on a silver platter. 

In silence Roger works the fastest. One hand rests easily on Freddie's left shoulder, while the other handles the blade. 

"If you cut me I'll cut your salary." Freddie says for no reason other than filling the silence. 

"Shut up."

Rogers breathes heavily in concentration and Freddie can feel the puffs of air against the back of his neck. 

Sometimes Freddie reckons he should feel bad for the things he makes Roger do for him. He would feel bad if it weren't for the fat check he writes Roger every week. 

Besides, the conditions of the job had been clear from the start. 

Freddie's assistent is to be available 24 hours a day, seven days a week. He's a busy man with an unpredictable schedule. There can be no slacking in the music business. If that means Roger has to come in an hour early to shave Freddie's back before an important photoshoot, then so be it.

"If you think you're done, you're mistaken." Freddie says instantly and Roger pauses with the razor under the faucet. 

Freddie reaches around himself clumsily and points at the spots where he is certain Roger missed patches of hair. 

"I can't see anything." 

"That's because you're not wearing your glasses." Freddie tuts. He curls his fingers in the motions for Roger to step closer agains. "C'mon finish the job. We're running late." 

If he had lowered the mirror he would have missed the smile on Rogers face as he shakes his head. 

"You'd think such a big fancy magazine could edit out any unwanted hairs."

"I like to be authentic, dear."

"Yes," Roger says as he shaves down the spot Freddie awkwardly directs with his index finger over his shoulder. "Very authentic."

Ignoring the small jab, they finish moments later. Roger tosses the razor in the sink and first cleans Freddie up with a damp cloth. It's warm. He takes his time dabbing down all the foam and hairs left on Freddie's back. Then when he is clean he dries him down with a towel. 

Freddie wraps the towel close around himself, Roger turns on the tap to clean the razor Freddie watches him in the mirror, while he himself is huddled in his warm cocoon. 

Without looking up Roger raises an eyebrow. "Thought you were in a hurry or do you want me to do your legs and bikini line next?"

Freddie grins and before he struts out the room throws the towel over Rogers head. 

Foam water goes flying and the towel is propelled back at him and would have caught him if he hadn't made a run for the door. Shrieking his way out when he hears Roger follow him hot on his heels.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

Freddie wakes up at 4:46 exactly when the tune from his dream is still fresh in his mind. 

The room is pitch black. The house is quiet and he is alone. 

He reaches his arm out to blindly grasp for the phone. Freddie exhales when the phone connects almost instantly. 

"Roger?"

"Yeah?" Comes the suffering murmur. 

Freddie usually adds a generous bonus to Rogers paycheck when he's been especially pesky. 

This week, with the late hours due to the albums nearing deadline, he owes Roger a big one. 

Reparations are for the future. Now he has a new song in mind which might tie the beginning of the album with the end. 

He kicks the covers off to reach for his notebook on the nightstand. Phone held between his shoulder and ear. 

"I got hit by inspiration. I need you to grab me a guitar and write down the chords. Maybe make us some coffee." He adds absentmindedly. He scribbles down words. A poem that had been playing around in his mind. _His hands grew rough with time. Painstaking hours. Nine to five. Still never would she be mine._

He hears rustling on the other end of the line. While Freddie considers himself quite a fantastic boss, he feels a little bad disturbing Rogers sleep. 

Again. 

This isn't their first rodeo. Roger has been with Freddie for over five years. That's four albums Roger assisted Freddie through. 

"Roger? You awake, darling?" 

"Already up." He yawns. "Be there in ten."

"Hurry."'

The line goes dead and Freddie continues to write and erase and rewrite the lyrics fitting the melody rewinding on repeat in his head. 

Roger arrives less than 10 minutes later according to the alarmclock on the nightstand. 

Freddie contemplates going downstairs to meet him there, but his legs have not woken up yet and he can already hear Roger drag himself up the stairs. 

He opens the bedroom door with his foot. His arms are occupied holding two cups of coffee by the ears of the mugs and Freddie's favorite acoustic guitar. Other than being well prepared, Roger looks like he hasn't slept in a week.

Which would be correct, because Freddie hasn't either. 

"You called." 

"I did indeed. C'mon sit down. I need you to write down the chords for this." 

He hands Roger an empty sheet music template from his drawer. Freddie has always been musical but never liked to write it all out himself. 

Roger puts the guitar horizontally in Freddie's lap and then hands him his coffee.

The bitter aroma fills Freddie's nostrils and he takes a longing sip. 

His own mug Roger leaves on the bedside table so he can sit down on the edge of the bed and pull the sheet music on his knee alongside the pen from Freddie's notebook. 

The bed was never meant for only one person. It could fit a party of five, but Rogers single presence takes up a comforting amount of space too.

Freddie stretches his leg out to poke Rogers knee. "No dozing off, dear." 

Roger, who's eyes had been closed for longer than ten seconds, jostles up with a sharp inhale. 

"Wasn't dozing." 

He shakes the sleep away with a tremor. Then he motions with his pen to the guitar in Freddie's lap. "Try and play it. Maybe we can go back to bed before studio time."

Freddie smiles at Rogers wistful thinking. 

After he puts down his coffee he has to close his eyes to recall the melody. When he finds it he plays it, four times in a row. Roger starts to write along on the third try. His sleep swollen eyes drag across the paper. Freddie plays it again but with a variation. He trusts Roger to get it right. 

In a few hours the musicians in the studio will have to comprehend Freddie's new idea so they can start recording it as soon as possible. 

Freddie longs for a vacation. He's done with winter, done with working, done with London. 

Roger will have to book them a getaway to the Bahamas after the album release. It would be something to look forward to, even if it's months away from the present.

"Fred?" 

He hadn't even noticed he'd stopped playing, let alone began to drift off. 

His entire body is heavy with sleep. The space behind his eyes burns with the desire to stay closed. 

Roger lifts his chin from the guitar and then takes the instrument away from Freddie altogether. He attempts to protest, but the caffeine isn't setting in and somehow he is lowered onto the pillows without a fight. 

Roger brings the covers all the way back to his chin and places the songbook safely on the nightstand along the nee sheet music. 

Freddie will have to remember to write him a fat check. 

Though the bed is cold and too large for him, Freddie curls his knees to his chest and closes his eyes. He cannot see Roger leave, but he hears him say something about being back at nine for breakfast. 

Freddie tries to murmur a thank you, but the bedroom door already shuts. Roger and his pink pajama trunks have left. 

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

"Roger?"

It took a good forty minutes to find Roger in the sea of people. Not that Freddie couldn't imagine where Roger was hanging out, but every step he takes he is dragged into another conversation with another person he doesn't know. 

The entire house is swarmed with people. It's nearing indecent hours to have guests over. He's tired. And tugs on the cuff of Rogers blouse to get his attention. 

He whips around with a sharp look that morphs into something softer at the sight of Freddie.

Freddie's shoulders relax having found a familiar face, finally.

"Hey, you okay Fred? I was just cleaning up a bit. Thought people would have left by now." He murmurs the last part.

Someone bumps into Freddie from behind. Freddie stumbles and collides against Roger. There is a giggled apology, but nothing disturbs the party goers. Freddie feels like crying. 

He clings onto Rogers shirt and doesn't pull away. He doesn't understand why he feels so miserable. So lonely. He's got hundreds of people at his disposal. If he would ask anyone out of this crowd to jump, they would ask how high? Still the loneliness is stifling, causing his throat to shut and tears to fill his itching eyes. 

Then, Roger wraps his arms around Freddie's middle and props him up against the counter. "When was the last time you had something to eat?"

"Dunno."

Roger sighs and reaches behind himself to access the refrigerator. Freddie squints and the harsh light flooding the otherwise dark kitchen. Next thing he knows, he's holding a banana in his hands.

Roger closes the fridge with his heel and prompts Freddie to eat it. 

He's too drunk to bother trying to peel the banana himself. So he hands it back to Roger, who takes the hint with a sigh. 

"Diva."

"Had too much to drink." Freddie drawls. He watches Roger peel the banana through his glassy eyes. Everything seems to move in slow motion, but still fast enough to make Freddie dizzy. Roger finishes the banana and hands it back to Freddie moments laster. 

"I'll bring you to your room and send everyone home." Roger announces curtly. 

Freddie is halfway down ravishing his food, his cheeks are puffed out with the excess. He shakes his head. "Don't send 'em away." 

In the background there's the constant thumping of the music and people's drunk laughter. 

Here and there Freddie hears a crash of fallen glass. Tomorrow he will properly mourn his antiques. 

There's a shout, followed by a door slamming. Someone tumbles down the stairs. More laughter. Roger sends Freddie the most unimpressed face he's ever worn. 

"If we send them away, who's coming next time I feel alone?" 

Roger stops mid breath. Freddie hates seeing the pity in those stupid blue eyes. 

Freddie looks away. 

"There's always people waiting eagerly to get in touch with you, Fred. You can replace this crowd with the next on a whim." 

"What if the album flops and nobody comes 'round anymore?" Freddie sniffles. 

He knows at this point he is more drunk than considered acceptable. At least Roger knows not to comment on it. Instead he wraps an arm around Freddie's shoulders and drags him out of the kitchen by force.

"I guess then it would be just you and me. Wouldn't be so bad, right?"

"That would be awful." Freddie says, resting his temple on Rogers shoulder while Roger pulls him up the stairs while nudging away anyone who Freddie could trip over. 

It is a miracle they make it all the way to the top. Freddie's vision is swimming and he lost the banana peel somewhere along the way. If he ever had functinal hand-eye coordination, he lost it now.

Roger leads him and his swaying knees to the end of the hallway into Freddie's bedroom.

There are people inside. 

A woman is fast asleep on the bed. Two people are kissing in the windowsill but everyone has their clothes still on. In fact, Freddie is the most concerned about a young man going through his wardrobe in the corner. 

"Everyone clear out. Party is over." 

Freddie whips his head around to look at Roger and tug him down by the arm. "No it's not. Just need a rest."

After another sigh, Roger repeats his words in a quiet murmur. He then shoos the woman off the bed to make room for Freddie. Finally the world stops spinning when he lays horizontally halfway up the mattress. One of his legs sticks out and he is wearing his shoes, but when Roger chases out the last of the guests from the room— he shuts the door and the sound of people is drowned far into the background.

Somewhere behind him Roger shuts the blinds and puts the clothes back into the closet where the guests tried to take some. 

"Don't cause any wrinkles." Freddie murmurs with his face half mushed in the mattress.

In the darkness Roger sends him a bored look while he hangs his favorite brown velvet shirt back onto the hanger. "It was already on the floor." 

"Hm."

Freddie turns his face to the other side and tries to toe off his shoes without having to sit up.

The slippery underside of the sole makes it hard to get underneath the heel of the other. Freddie can't get either to come off and moments later after kicking and wriggling, like a fish on the land, he gives up. Dead.

His head is heavy from having too much booze and too little sleep last night. 

The album will be finished soon. He might have more time to be around people. Normal people that go for coffee or shop on sunny Saturdays. Right now he's alone with everyone who can spare a minute at 3 am. 

Freddie doesn't like being at home alone and miserable, now he is alone with 400 people for background noise.

All the people he sees these says are the people that work for him or worship him. It’s not a nice crowd to be surrounded by. 

"Roger?"

He doesn't know how much time has passed, but he hadn't heard him leave yet.

The rustling across the room pauses. Roger clears his throat. "Yeah?"

"Bring me to a club." 

He snorts, and then, when Freddie attempts to climb up on his elbows, the mattress dips and Roger sits down to remove Freddie's shoes for him. 

"You're not going anywhere. You can barely stand." Roger says, as if he has the authority to tell Freddie what he can and cannot do. "Besides, what does a gay club have that Garden Lodge doesn't?" 

"Strangers." Freddie breathes. "People who aren't there just for me." 

And he knows he sounds like a prick wording it like that, but Roger never calls him out for it. Freddie likes to imagine Roger understands or at least sympathizes, because nobody understands what it's like to be him. To be loved in the most shallow sense of the word. To be worshipped and to be followed, but never to be cherished. 

He is so drunk he doesn't even care that he's openly crying in Rogers presence.

Again the bed dips and a hand lands on his shoulder. "The album is almost done, Fred. After that I'll make sure you meet some of the best homosexuals London has to offer."

When he doesn't react, Roger finishes with a strong squeeze before he pushes himself upright.

The question not to leave sits heavy on the tip of Freddie's tongue, but Roger is another person forced by his paycheck to listen to Freddie. To like Freddie. 

Nothing in his life feels genuine anymore. 

"Try to have a rest. I'll make sure everyone is gone when you wake up."

Freddie's fingers curl around his pillow which he holds tight against his chest. The soft fabric absorbs his tears but none of his pain. 

He doesn't even notice when he falls asleep, because he wakes up with the same hollow emptiness in his chest. He notes that the house is quiet and the birds are chirping outside his window. He pushes himself upright and ignores the ache splitting his brain to bits. Blindly he grasps for the phone on the nightstand, to call Roger in to bring him to the studio, only to nearly knock over a glass of water. 

In the darkness Freddie squints and also finds two aspirins on the stand. 

Just as Freddie downs the first pill with a generous gulp, he hears stomping down the hallway, followed by a knock on the door. 

"Yeah?"

Roger peaks his head around the corner, smiling. "So you finally awake then?" 

Still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Freddie grumbles. "Barely."

"If you can come down in ten, there's still enough time for breakfast. I promise I'll try not to burn the toast."

Then he leaves Freddie alone again in the darkness of his bedroom. 

Feeling very sorry for himself, Freddie pushes the covers away and climbs to his feet. All his muscles ache alongside his head, but at least he can walk without swaying again. He looks around himself while he walks to his wardrobe, and to his surprise, the entirety of his room is cleaned. 

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

"What's this rubbish?"

"Rock music?" Roger asks dryly,  
sparing Freddie a glance from the corner of his sunglasses. Freddie would much rather prefer Rogers eyes on the road. They barely function to begin with. 

He takes it upon himself to switch radio stations, but Roger swats his hand away from the dashboard. "What are you doing?" 

"Finding some actual music." 

"How can you even say that? _You_ are one of the biggest rock legends alive."

"So I know what's good and what isn't." Freddie says without openly gloating at Rogers compliment. He reaches out again to switch stations, this time Roger only scowls from behind the wheel. 

It is dark out still, but soon the sun will come up. It was the final day in the studio and they’re on their way to the hotel close to where they’re meeting with EMI in the morning. 

Roger always plays music when he’s driving Freddie around. Especially when it’s this late and his eyes are begging to rest. 

"You should learn how to drive then you can pick the music." 

"I'm your boss and I paid not only for your presence but also for this car." Freddie settles the argument and station he desires. Finally he sits back and enjoys the blissed calm music coming from the speaker in the door. He knows Roger likes it too, he is critical of the quality but not so much of the genre, he can tell he likes it by the drumming of his fingers and the moving of his lips alongside the lyrics. 

It’s been a long day and he doesn’t feel like chastising Roger after he’s graciously given in and let Freddie change the music. Thus proving how tired he truly is. 

“You won’t fall asleep, right?” Freddie jokes half heartedly, but it’s actually a test to see if Roger is upset.

“I’ve never fallen asleep behind the wheel and tonight won’t be the first time.”

“If you say so.” 

Freddie smiles. Knowing they’re good.

Roger drives them through the night with many yawns and steady sips from his coffee. The music stays on the station Freddie picked and Roger is the one to sing along the most.

“I seek to cure what's deep inside,” He murmurs. As Freddie wouldn’t hear if he was quiet enough. “Frightened of this thing that I've become.” 

He inhales sharply and Freddie bites back a grin when he turns up the volume along the chorus. 

“It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you. There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do.”

“I bless the rains down in Africa.” Freddie sings along. They’re both horribly off-key and uncaring. There’s nobody to hear them flop. “Gonna take some time to do the things we never had.” 

“Ooh ooh.” Roger sings, his face split into a wide smile. 

Freddie smiles back, knowing he was right.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

The stifling silence of the home is broken by the opening and closing of the front door. Freddie is in his room under the covers still in his pajamas despite the fact that it’s late in the afternoon. 

How late he doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. 

He contemplates getting up and hiding when he hears Roger coming up the stairs. But it would only buy him little time. Roger knows all the good hiding spots. 

So Freddie stays where he is. Curled up around his pillow in a heap of his own misery.

Before Roger comes into his bedroom he busies himself across the hall. Freddie strains his ears to listen to what he is doing, but only understands when he hears the faucet being turned on and running consistently. 

Roger enters Freddie’s room after he’s started a bath. He’s truly a cruel man. Entering Freddie’s private domain and turning on the harsh overhead lights. 

"Drawing you a bath." He announces calmly. 

Freddie doesn’t have to look to hear him open the curtains and the windows. The fresh air is soothing but also cold. Freddie huddles under his comforter. 

Roger doesn’t prompt him to say anything for a long moment. The silence is broken by cars driving in the background and the old pipes in the house. Freddie waits for Roger to say something and doesn’t get anything, which is annoying too. 

"I'm having the worst time of my life." 

Then Roger finally does react, but not the way Freddie had hoped. 

He folds back the sheets so he can have a look at Freddie. Despite his folded arms and brow wrinkling frown, Rogers eyes soften at the sight of him. Freddie knows he must look miserable, even though he tried to rub away the tears and their stains from his face. He glares up at Roger, who certainly doesn’t deserve to be glared at, but he is the only person there.

"It doesn't even feel like my birthday." He sighs, like a child. A spoiled brat. 

Roger bites back a smile when Freddie pushes his bottom lip out in a pout. At least someone is smiling, he thinks dryly, before Roger pulls him into a sitting position. 

"Maybe it would feel like your birthday if you hadn't ordered me to hide all the presents in the dining room and reject any visitors coming up to the gate." Roger reminds him of who is biggest enemy is, himself. Freddie refuses to cooperate with Roger, no matter how hard he tries to drag him across the hall to the bathroom. Eventually he slings Freddie’s arm over his shoulders. 

“You’re really fucking heavy.” He grunts. 

“You’re awful. It’s my birthday you know.”

Roger ushers him forward while he holds the door open with his foot. “Yeah, yeah. Everything is my fault. Now go inside.”

Freddie is hit by the aroma of his favorite vanilla scented bubble soap. 

Roger closes the door and motions towards the filling bath, steam and bubbles rise to the surface. “C’mon get in.”

“Did you use up all my bubble bath soap?”

“You’re literally a millionaire, Freddie. If you want me to get more bubbles, I’ll get you more bubbles.” 

When there is nothing more to complain about, Freddie starts peeling his clothes off his back.

Roger waits until he is sure Freddie is going to take the bath before he leaves the room and Freddie by himself. Freddie manages a look at himself in the mirror before he steps unto the tub. He sees a man with hollow bloodshot eyes. A man who cries but doesn’t sleep. He wraps his arms around himself. He feels cold and bare in the steam heated bathroom. 

Eventually when he can’t stand the sight anymore, he turns around to lower himself into the bath. It’s large enough for two, he can sink all the way in to his chin without his feet touching the other end.

Despite not wanting to take the bath, he instantly feels a lot better. 

The vanilla clings to his skin and his silent tears dissolve in the water. He floats in a weightless ecstasy. And finally when his eyes close there is a knock on the door.

“Are you in the bath, Fred?”

Freddie gathers some extra bubbles to cover his crotch area. “Yes.”

A second later Roger opens the door with his hip, because his hands are occupied holding a bottle of champagne, two glasses and a small plate with a piece of cake. 

Freddie pushes himself upright when Roger enters with a smug grin, singing, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” 

He sits on his knees beside the bath and balances the champagne glasses on the edge before filling each with a generous amount of liquor. 

“Happy birthday, dear Freddie. Happy birthday to you.” 

On top of the cake stands a single candle. Roger hands the plate to him and without thinking Freddie blows out the flame. 

“Make a wish.” Roger reminds him.

Freddie closes his eyes and quickly begs the universe for a less lonely year. Hoping with all his might that someone out there will hear him. 

Immediately when the candle has burned out, Roger puts the champagne glass in Freddie’s hand so they can toast.

“To another hundred birthdays in the future.”

Freddie smiles, balancing the plate in one hand and his glass in the other with less grace than he had usually. “To another thousand.” 

They click their glasses together and down it all in one gulp. Roger fills them both up for another generous share, which they each savor for a longer moment. Freddie leans back in the tub and stretches his foot out so his big toe is right under the water tap. 

Roger makes himself comfortable leaning on the edge of the bath and putting up a cigarette. 

“This more birthday-esque for you?” 

He hates to admit he’s in his thirties now. _Single_. He’d much rather be blissfully unaware of the years passing him by feeling like his life is a meaningless string of albums and songs nobody will recall once he’s left. 

But Roger bought him a cake from his favorite restaurant on the other side of town. And champagne from some remote village in France, making today a little less miserable than it should be.

“Maybe if we go downstairs later and rip open all the presents I got.” 

Roger snorts, puffing around his cigarette. “Whatever you want, Fred.” 

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

“Freddie?” 

Roger opens the door looking even worse than he sounded on the phone. 

He uses the doorframe to support his weight and his skin is sickly pale compared to the bags under his eyes. 

Freddie stands frozen on the front porch, looking up and down at Rogers sweat drenched t-shirt, before shaking his head. “You look absolutely horrific.”

Roger ignores the insult. “Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?” 

Freddie opens his mouth to explain why, but Roger cuts him off almost immediately. 

“I told you I was fine to take care of myself. You’re missing studio time.” He says, as if Freddie enjoys sitting around during the mixing process. 

“No, no, that’s not it.” Freddie lies through his teeth as he smiles. “I’m not here to look after you.” 

Rogers eyes narrow. “No?” 

“No!” Freddie clasps his shoulder and steps into the house without an invitation. Inside it smells like Roger, like his laundry detergent, his smokes, his hair conditioner and his cologne. Freddie crosses the hallway to what he assumes is the living room. “Of course not, dear. I was just bored.” 

Behind him Roger closes the front door with a sigh. As if his resolve has already vanished. 

He follows Freddie into his living room— which is sparsely furnished but somehow still cluttered because of the lack of space. 

“You were bored?” He asks. His voice edged with doubt. 

“Certainly.” Freddie tugs onto Rogers arm to drag him towards the couch where he sees several pillows propped up against the armrest and a blanket thrown over the back. “I needed some company and you weren’t there.”

“Sorry.”

The lack of fight or sarcasm in his voice is a tad worrisome. 

He goes willingly when Freddie pushes him down onto the cushions. Freddie then covers him with the blanket, smiling as he tucks his feet in all the way to his chin. A full body tremor sends Rogers eyes to the back if his skull before they shut. Freddie grimaces.

“Some tea, perhaps?” 

“Don’t, please, I’ll make some.” Roger says without moving an inch.

“Is this about the time I accidentally put the kettle on fire, because—”

“Yes this is about the time you put the kettle on fire.” His face drops sideways into the pillow as if his neck couldn’t hold the weigh anymore and Freddie grimaces at the sight. “Just grab some water if you’re thirsty.” 

Freddie almost protests against the order, but he doesn’t want to create more trouble for Roger than he’s actually helping. 

“Alright.” He finally says, “I’ll grab us some water. Anything else?” 

“No.” Roger murmurs. “Glasses’r in the far left cupboard.” 

Freddie feels weird walking around Rogers house for the first time. They have worked together for half a decade but never had he had the opportunity to see how Roger lived those spare hours away from Freddie. 

He finds the glasses after opening every other cupboard first to see Rogers inventory. 

Finally he pours them both some water from the fridge and brings it back to the couch, where Roger has managed to prop himself up in a sitting position. 

His cheeks are a flushed shade of pink and his hair sticks up in every direction. 

“You look horrible, Roger.” 

“Thank you.” Roger takes the glass from him with shaking hands. He sips from the rim with his eyes fixed on Freddie, who decides to sit on the end of the couch and move Rogers feet onto his lap, instead of sitting on any of the other available seats. “How did you find out where I live?” 

“I’ve got my ways.” Freddie smiles, holding the glass between his palms until the cold makes them slightly numb. 

Roger sits quietly and finishes his drink without another complaint. 

Freddie isn’t actually thirsty. He traces the bring of the glass with his pinky finger. He stares into the transparent surface until he finds his voice again. 

“Will you let me stay for a bit? Just until I’m not bored anymore, of course.”

Roger calculates him through the slits of his eyes. 

The embarrassment that creeps up on him is nauseating and his face heats up. Of course Roger doesn’t buy his poorly manufactured excuse. What pathetic person has to pay people to be their friend. “It’s because they’re mixing in the studio and you know I don’t really care for that. It’s boring and none of the clubs are open at this hour, so naturally I get lonely.” He scrambles to explain. “It’s normal.”

“Don’t worry.” 

Roger puts the glass on the floor and turns over on his side to snuggle in the pillow. His socked toes wriggle in Freddie’s lap. He can’t help but cover them with his hands to keep him warm. The corner of Rogers smile is just visible from Freddie’s angle. Relief washes over him when he hears Rogers sleepy mumble. 

“You can stay, Fred.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading ❤️ and please let me know if you enjoyed it


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